Lakamba dozed uneasily off,but the wakeful Babalatchi sat thinking deeply,sighing from time to time,and slapping himself over his naked torso incessantly in a vain endeavour to keep off an occasional and wandering mosquito that,rising as high as the platform above the swarms of the riverside,would settle with a ping of triumph on the unexpected victim.The moon,pursuing her silent and toilsome path,attained her highest elevation,and chasing the shadow of the roof-eaves from Lakamba's face,seemed to hang arrested over their heads.Babalatchi revived the fire and woke up his companion,who sat up yawning and shivering discontentedly.
Babalatchi spoke again in a voice which was like the murmur of a brook that runs over the stones:low,monotonous,persistent;irresistible in its power to wear out and to destroy the hardest obstacles.Lakamba listened,silent but interested.They were Malay adventurers;ambitious men of that place and time;the Bohemians of their race.In the early days of the settlement,before the ruler Patalolo had shaken off his allegiance to the Sultan of Koti,Lakamba appeared in the river with two small trading vessels.He was disappointed to find already some semblance of organization amongst the settlers of various races who recognized the unobtrusive sway of old Patalolo,and he was not politic enough to conceal his disappointment.He declared himself to be a man from the east,from those parts where no white man ruled,and to be of an oppressed race,but of a princely family.And truly enough he had all the gifts of an exiled prince.He was discontented,ungrateful,turbulent;a man full of envy and ready for intrigue,with brave words and empty promises for ever on his lips.He was obstinate,but his will was made up of short impulses that never lasted long enough to carry him to the goal of his ambition.Received coldly by the suspicious Patalolo,he persisted--permission or no permission--in clearing the ground on a good spot some fourteen miles down the river from Sambir,and built himself a house there,which he fortified by a high palisade.As he had many followers and seemed very reckless,the old Rajah did not think it prudent at the time to interfere with him by force.Once settled,he began to intrigue.The quarrel of Patalolo with the Sultan of Koti was of his fomenting,but failed to produce the result he expected because the Sultan could not back him up effectively at such a great distance.Disappointed in that scheme,he promptly organized an outbreak of the Bugis settlers,and besieged the old Rajah in his stockade with much noisy valour and a fair chance of success;but Lingard then appeared on the scene with the armed brig,and the old seaman's hairy forefinger,shaken menacingly in his face,quelled his martial ardour.No man cared to encounter the Rajah Laut,and Lakamba,with momentary resignation,subsided into a half-cultivator,half-trader,and nursed in his fortified house his wrath and his ambition,keeping it for use on a more propitious occasion.
Still faithful to his character of a prince-pretender,he would not recognize the constituted authorities,answering sulkily the Rajah's messenger,who claimed the tribute for the cultivated fields,that the Rajah had better come and take it himself.By Lingard's advice he was left alone,notwithstanding his rebellious mood;and for many days he lived undisturbed amongst his wives and retainers,cherishing that persistent and causeless hope of better times,the possession of which seems to be the universal privilege of exiled greatness.
But the passing days brought no change.The hope grew faint and the hot ambition burnt itself out,leaving only a feeble and expiring spark amongst a heap of dull and tepid ashes of indolent acquiescence with the decrees of Fate,till Babalatchi fanned it again into a bright flame.Babalatchi had blundered upon the river while in search of a safe refuge for his disreputable head.
He was a vagabond of the seas,a true Orang-Laut,living by rapine and plunder of coasts and ships in his prosperous days;earning his living by honest and irksome toil when the days of adversity were upon him.So,although at times leading the Sulu rovers,he had also served as Serang of country ships,and in that wise had visited the distant seas,beheld the glories of Bombay,the might of the Mascati Sultan;had even struggled in a pious throng for the privilege of touching with his lips the Sacred Stone of the Holy City.He gathered experience and wisdom in many lands,and after attaching himself to Omar el Badavi,he affected great piety (as became a pilgrim),although unable to read the inspired words of the Prophet.He was brave and bloodthirsty without any affection,and he hated the white men who interfered with the manly pursuits of throat-cutting,kidnapping,slave-dealing,and fire-raising,that were the only possible occupation for a true man of the sea.He found favour in the eyes of his chief,the fearless Omar el Badavi,the leader of Brunei rovers,whom he followed with unquestioning loyalty through the long years of successful depredation.And when that long career of murder,robbery and violence received its first serious check at the hands of white men,he stood faithfully by his chief,looked steadily at the bursting shells,was undismayed by the flames of the burning stronghold,by the death of his companions,by the shrieks of their women,the wailing of their children;by the sudden ruin and destruction of all that he deemed indispensable to a happy and glorious existence.The beaten ground between the houses was slippery with blood,and the dark mangroves of the muddy creeks were full of sighs of the dying men who were stricken down before they could see their enemy.They died helplessly,for into the tangled forest there was no escape,and their swift praus,in which they had so often scoured the coast and the seas,now wedged together in the narrow creek,were burning fiercely.Babalatchi,with the clear perception of the coming end,devoted all his energies to saving if it was but only one of them.He succeeded in time.When the end came in the explosion of the stored powder-barrels,he was ready to look for his chief.He found him half dead and totally blinded,with nobody near him but his daughter Aissa:--the sons had fallen earlier in the day,as became men of their courage.
Helped by the girl with the steadfast heart,Babalatchi carried Omar on board the light prau and succeeded in escaping,but with very few companions only.As they hauled their craft into the network of dark and silent creeks,they could hear the cheering of the crews of the man-of-war's boats dashing to the attack of the rover's village.Aissa,sitting on the high after-deck,her father's blackened and bleeding head in her lap,looked up with fearless eyes at Babalatchi."They shall find only smoke,blood and dead men,and women mad with fear there,but nothing else living,"she said,mournfully.Babalatchi,pressing with his right hand the deep gash on his shoulder,answered sadly:"They are very strong.When we fight with them we can only die.Yet,"he added,menacingly--"some of us still live!Some of us still live!"For a short time he dreamed of vengeance,but his dream was dispelled by the cold reception of the Sultan of Sulu,with whom they sought refuge at first and who gave them only a contemptuous and grudging hospitality.While Omar,nursed by Aissa,was recovering from his wounds,Babalatchi attended industriously before the exalted Presence that had extended to them the hand of Protection.For all that,when Babalatchi spoke into the Sultan's ear certain proposals of a great and profitable raid,that was to sweep the islands from Ternate to Acheen,the Sultan was very angry."I know you,you men from the west,"he exclaimed,angrily."Your words are poison in a Ruler's ears.
Your talk is of fire and murder and booty--but on our heads falls the vengeance of the blood you drink.Begone!"There was nothing to be done.Times were changed.So changed that,when a Spanish frigate appeared before the island and a demand was sent to the Sultan to deliver Omar and his companions,Babalatchi was not surprised to hear that they were going to be made the victims of political expediency.But from that sane appreciation of danger to tame submission was a very long step.
And then began Omar's second flight.It began arms in hand,for the little band had to fight in the night on the beach for the possession of the small canoes in which those that survived got away at last.The story of that escape lives in the hearts of brave men even to this day.They talk of Babalatchi and of the strong woman who carried her blind father through the surf under the fire of the warship from the north.The companions of that piratical and son-less Aeneas are dead now,but their ghosts wander over the waters and the islands at night--after the manner of ghosts--and haunt the fires by which sit armed men,as is meet for the spirits of fearless warriors who died in battle.There they may hear the story of their own deeds,of their own courage,suffering and death,on the lips of living men.That story is told in many places.On the cool mats in breezy verandahs of Rajahs'houses it is alluded to disdainfully by impassive statesmen,but amongst armed men that throng the courtyards it is a tale which stills the murmur of voices and the tinkle of anklets;arrests the passage of the siri-vessel,and fixes the eyes in absorbed gaze.They talk of the fight,of the fearless woman,of the wise man;of long suffering on the thirsty sea in leaky canoes;of those who died...Many died.A few survived.The chief,the woman,and another one who became great.
There was no hint of incipient greatness in Babalatchi's unostentatious arrival in Sambir.He came with Omar and Aissa in a small prau loaded with green cocoanuts,and claimed the ownership of both vessel and cargo.How it came to pass that Babalatchi,fleeing for his life in a small canoe,managed to end his hazardous journey in a vessel full of a valuable commodity,is one of those secrets of the sea that baffle the most searching inquiry.In truth nobody inquired much.There were rumours of a missing trading prau belonging to Menado,but they were vague and remained mysterious.Babalatchi told a story which--it must be said in justice to Patalolo's knowledge of the world--was not believed.When the Rajah ventured to state his doubts,Babalatchi asked him in tones of calm remonstrance whether he could reasonably suppose that two oldish men--who had only one eye amongst them--and a young woman were likely to gain possession of anything whatever by violence?Charity was a virtue recommended by the Prophet.There were charitable people,and their hand was open to the deserving.Patalolo wagged his aged head doubtingly,and Babalatchi withdrew with a shocked mien and put himself forthwith under Lakamba's protection.The two men who completed the prau's crew followed him into that magnate's campong.The blind Omar,with Aissa,remained under the care of the Rajah,and the Rajah confiscated the cargo.The prau hauled up on the mud-bank,at the junction of the two branches of the Pantai,rotted in the rain,warped in the sun,fell to pieces and gradually vanished into the smoke of household fires of the settlement.Only a forgotten plank and a rib or two,sticking neglected in the shiny ooze for a long time,served to remind Babalatchi during many months that he was a stranger in the land.
Otherwise,he felt perfectly at home in Lakamba's establishment,where his peculiar position and influence were quickly recognized and soon submitted to even by the women.He had all a true vagabond's pliability to circumstances and adaptiveness to momentary surroundings.In his readiness to learn from experience that contempt for early principles so necessary to a true statesman,he equalled the most successful politicians of any age;and he had enough persuasiveness and firmness of purpose to acquire a complete mastery over Lakamba's vacillating mind--where there was nothing stable but an all-pervading discontent.He kept the discontent alive,he rekindled the expiring ambition,he moderated the poor exile's not unnatural impatience to attain a high and lucrative position.He--the man of violence--deprecated the use of force,for he had a clear comprehension of the difficult situation.From the same cause,he--the hater of white men--would to some extent admit the eventual expediency of Dutch protection.But nothing should be done in a hurry.Whatever his master Lakamba might think,there was no use in poisoning old Patalolo,he maintained.It could be done,of course;but what then?As long as Lingard's influence was paramount--as long as Almayer,Lingard's representative,was the only great trader of the settlement,it was not worth Lakamba's while--even if it had been possible--to grasp the rule of the young state.Killing Almayer and Lingard was so difficult and so risky that it might be dismissed as impracticable.What was wanted was an alliance;somebody to set up against the white men's influence--and somebody who,while favourable to Lakamba,would at the same time be a person of a good standing with the Dutch authorities.A rich and considered trader was wanted.
Such a person once firmly established in Sambir would help them to oust the old Rajah,to remove him from power or from life if there was no other way.Then it would be time to apply to the Orang Blanda for a flag;for a recognition of their meritorious services;for that protection which would make them safe for ever!The word of a rich and loyal trader would mean something with the Ruler down in Batavia.The first thing to do was to find such an ally and to induce him to settle in Sambir.A white trader would not do.A white man would not fall in with their ideas--would not be trustworthy.The man they wanted should be rich,unscrupulous,have many followers,and be a well-known personality in the islands.Such a man might be found amongst the Arab traders.Lingard's jealousy,said Babalatchi,kept all the traders out of the river.Some were afraid,and some did not know how to get there;others ignored the very existence of Sambir;a good many did not think it worth their while to run the risk of Lingard's enmity for the doubtful advantage of trade with a comparatively unknown settlement.The great majority were undesirable or untrustworthy.And Babalatchi mentioned regretfully the men he had known in his young days:wealthy,resolute,courageous,reckless,ready for any enterprise!But why lament the past and speak about the dead?There is one man--living--great--not far off...
Such was Babalatchi's line of policy laid before his ambitious protector.Lakamba assented,his only objection being that it was very slow work.In his extreme desire to grasp dollars and power,the unintellectual exile was ready to throw himself into the arms of any wandering cut-throat whose help could be secured,and Babalatchi experienced great difficulty in restraining him from unconsidered violence.It would not do to let it be seen that they had any hand in introducing a new element into the social and political life of Sambir.There was always a possibility of failure,and in that case Lingard's vengeance would be swift and certain.No risk should be run.They must wait.
Meantime he pervaded the settlement,squatting in the course of each day by many household fires,testing the public temper and public opinion--and always talking about his impending departure.
At night he would often take Lakamba's smallest canoe and depart silently to pay mysterious visits to his old chief on the other side of the river.Omar lived in odour of sanctity under the wing of Patalolo.Between the bamboo fence,enclosing the houses of the Rajah,and the wild forest,there was a banana plantation,and on its further edge stood two little houses built on low piles under a few precious fruit trees that grew on the banks of a clear brook,which,bubbling up behind the house,ran in its short and rapid course down to the big river.Along the brook a narrow path led through the dense second growth of a neglected clearing to the banana plantation and to the houses in it which the Rajah had given for residence to Omar.The Rajah was greatly impressed by Omar's ostentatious piety,by his oracular wisdom,by his many misfortunes,by the solemn fortitude with which he bore his affliction.Often the old ruler of Sambir would visit informally the blind Arab and listen gravely to his talk during the hot hours of an afternoon.In the night,Babalatchi would call and interrupt Omar's repose,unrebuked.Aissa,standing silently at the door of one of the huts,could see the two old friends as they sat very still by the fire in the middle of the beaten ground between the two houses,talking in an indistinct murmur far into the night.She could not hear their words,but she watched the two formless shadows curiously.Finally Babalatchi would rise and,taking her father by the wrist,would lead him back to the house,arrange his mats for him,and go out quietly.Instead of going away,Babalatchi,unconscious of Aissa's eyes,often sat again by the fire,in a long and deep meditation.Aissa looked with respect on that wise and brave man--she was accustomed to see at her father's side as long as she could remember--sitting alone and thoughtful in the silent night by the dying fire,his body motionless and his mind wandering in the land of memories,or--who knows?--perhaps groping for a road in the waste spaces of the uncertain future.
Babalatchi noted the arrival of Willems with alarm at this new accession to the white men's strength.Afterwards he changed his opinion.He met Willems one night on the path leading to Omar's house,and noticed later on,with only a moderate surprise,that the blind Arab did not seem to be aware of the new white man's visits to the neighbourhood of his dwelling.Once,coming unexpectedly in the daytime,Babalatchi fancied he could see the gleam of a white jacket in the bushes on the other side of the brook.That day he watched Aissa pensively as she moved about preparing the evening rice;but after awhile he went hurriedly away before sunset,refusing Omar's hospitable invitation,in the name of Allah,to share their meal.That same evening he startled Lakamba by announcing that the time had come at last to make the first move in their long-deferred game.Lakamba asked excitedly for explanation.Babalatchi shook his head and pointed to the flitting shadows of moving women and to the vague forms of men sitting by the evening fires in the courtyard.Not a word would he speak here,he declared.But when the whole household was reposing,Babalatchi and Lakamba passed silent amongst sleeping groups to the riverside,and,taking a canoe,paddled off stealthily on their way to the dilapidated guard-hut in the old rice-clearing.There they were safe from all eyes and ears,and could account,if need be,for their excursion by the wish to kill a deer,the spot being well known as the drinking-place of all kinds of game.In the seclusion of its quiet solitude Babalatchi explained his plan to the attentive Lakamba.His idea was to make use of Willems for the destruction of Lingard's influence.
"I know the white men,Tuan,"he said,in conclusion."In many lands have I seen them;always the slaves of their desires,always ready to give up their strength and their reason into the hands of some woman.The fate of the Believers is written by the hand of the Mighty One,but they who worship many gods are thrown into the world with smooth foreheads,for any woman's hand to mark their destruction there.Let one white man destroy another.
The will of the Most High is that they should be fools.They know how to keep faith with their enemies,but towards each other they know only deception.Hai!I have seen!I have seen!"He stretched himself full length before the fire,and closed his eye in real or simulated sleep.Lakamba,not quite convinced,sat for a long time with his gaze riveted on the dull embers.As the night advanced,a slight white mist rose from the river,and the declining moon,bowed over the tops of the forest,seemed to seek the repose of the earth,like a wayward and wandering lover who returns at last to lay his tired and silent head on his beloved's breast.
CHAPTER SIX
"Lend me your gun,Almayer,"said Willems,across the table on which a smoky lamp shone redly above the disorder of a finished meal."I have a mind to go and look for a deer when the moon rises to-night."Almayer,sitting sidewise to the table,his elbow pushed amongst the dirty plates,his chin on his breast and his legs stretched stiffly out,kept his eyes steadily on the toes of his grass slippers and laughed abruptly.
"You might say yes or no instead of making that unpleasant noise,"remarked Willems,with calm irritation.
"If I believed one word of what you say,I would,"answered Almayer without changing his attitude and speaking slowly,with pauses,as if dropping his words on the floor."As it is--what's the use?You know where the gun is;you may take it or leave it.
Gun.Deer.Bosh!Hunt deer!Pah!It's a...gazelle you are after,my honoured guest.You want gold anklets and silk sarongs for that game--my mighty hunter.And you won't get those for the asking,I promise you.All day amongst the natives.A fine help you are to me.""You shouldn't drink so much,Almayer,"said Willems,disguising his fury under an affected drawl."You have no head.Never had,as far as I can remember,in the old days in Macassar.You drink too much.""I drink my own,"retorted Almayer,lifting his head quickly and darting an angry glance at Willems.
Those two specimens of the superior race glared at each other savagely for a minute,then turned away their heads at the same moment as if by previous arrangement,and both got up.Almayer kicked off his slippers and scrambled into his hammock,which hung between two wooden columns of the verandah so as to catch every rare breeze of the dry season,and Willems,after standing irresolutely by the table for a short time,walked without a word down the steps of the house and over the courtyard towards the little wooden jetty,where several small canoes and a couple of big white whale-boats were made fast,tugging at their short painters and bumping together in the swift current of the river.
He jumped into the smallest canoe,balancing himself clumsily,slipped the rattan painter,and gave an unnecessary and violent shove,which nearly sent him headlong overboard.By the time he regained his balance the canoe had drifted some fifty yards down the river.He knelt in the bottom of his little craft and fought the current with long sweeps of the paddle.Almayer sat up in his hammock,grasping his feet and peering over the river with parted lips till he made out the shadowy form of man and canoe as they struggled past the jetty again.
"I thought you would go,"he shouted."Won't you take the gun?
Hey?"he yelled,straining his voice.Then he fell back in his hammock and laughed to himself feebly till he fell asleep.On the river,Willems,his eyes fixed intently ahead,swept his paddle right and left,unheeding the words that reached him faintly.
It was now three months since Lingard had landed Willems in Sambir and had departed hurriedly,leaving him in Almayer's care.
The two white men did not get on well together.Almayer,remembering the time when they both served Hudig,and when the superior Willems treated him with offensive condescension,felt a great dislike towards his guest.He was also jealous of Lingard's favour.Almayer had married a Malay girl whom the old seaman had adopted in one of his accesses of unreasoning benevolence,and as the marriage was not a happy one from a domestic point of view,he looked to Lingard's fortune for compensation in his matrimonial unhappiness.The appearance of that man,who seemed to have a claim of some sort upon Lingard,filled him with considerable uneasiness,the more so because the old seaman did not choose to acquaint the husband of his adopted daughter with Willems'history,or to confide to him his intentions as to that individual's future fate.Suspicious from the first,Almayer discouraged Willems'attempts to help him in his trading,and then when Willems drew back,he made,with characteristic perverseness,a grievance of his unconcern.From cold civility in their relations,the two men drifted into silent hostility,then into outspoken enmity,and both wished ardently for Lingard's return and the end of a situation that grew more intolerable from day to day.The time dragged slowly.Willems watched the succeeding sunrises wondering dismally whether before the evening some change would occur in the deadly dullness of his life.He missed the commercial activity of that existence which seemed to him far off,irreparably lost,buried out of sight under the ruins of his past success--now gone from him beyond the possibility of redemption.He mooned disconsolately about Almayer's courtyard,watching from afar,with uninterested eyes,the up-country canoes discharging guttah or rattans,and loading rice or European goods on the little wharf of Lingard &Co.Big as was the extent of ground owned by Almayer,Willems yet felt that there was not enough room for him inside those neat fences.
The man who,during long years,became accustomed to think of himself as indispensable to others,felt a bitter and savage rage at the cruel consciousness of his superfluity,of his uselessness;at the cold hostility visible in every look of the only white man in this barbarous corner of the world.He gnashed his teeth when he thought of the wasted days,of the life thrown away in the unwilling company of that peevish and suspicious fool.He heard the reproach of his idleness in the murmurs of the river,in the unceasing whisper of the great forests.Round him everything stirred,moved,swept by in a rush;the earth under his feet and the heavens above his head.The very savages around him strove,struggled,fought,worked--if only to prolong a miserable existence;but they lived,they lived!And it was only himself that seemed to be left outside the scheme of creation in a hopeless immobility filled with tormenting anger and with ever-stinging regret.
